


why did you do me? / why did you get done?

by writtendlessly



Category: Sorted (Website) RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, M/M, Poetic nonsense, Unrequited Love, fwb with feelings, just how i like it, no capitals and lots of commas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtendlessly/pseuds/writtendlessly
Summary: a simple photo, a simple silver band. but james had always preferred gold.





	why did you do me? / why did you get done?

i. it’s not even christmas day when it happens, the nervous energy and unending joy for the future unable to be contained. james is idly browsing his instagram feed, alone in his apartment and trying his best to ignore the way it makes him feel so small and insignificant, when he sees it. a simple photo and a silver band on a delicate hand. james had always preferred gold, something about silver seemed too cold to him, seemed too much like shackles and chains, seemed like something he could never hope to achieve, even when laws changed and light reflected off cheap metals to blind him. 

_well, that’s that then._ the liquor he forces down isn’t gold but clear, but it still burns like forged metal as it makes its way down his throat. 

 

 

ii. james had always expected to be the one walking away. grumpy james, frustrated james, nobody-wants-to-get-close james. he pretends it’s on purpose when he chases another lover away with his sharp edges, his jagged corners cutting anyone who dares to get close enough to him. so when mike came to him all too-soft smiles and heart on his sleeve, james could see the ending before it ever began. the first night in his apartment was heaven and every one that followed was hell. heat and danger and wicked tongues spelling out the most vulgar sonnets on his pale skin. 

james was supposed to be the one packing his bags first. but every single time mike would hurry out at five in the morning, the sun just barely over the horizon as he grabs clothes and keys and something that james can’t remember but he _knows_ mike took from him. when they saw each other an hour later across bubbling pots and chopping boards it was never awkward, but it was different. james thought it was a good different, at first. 

 

 

iii. mike would hold him so softly in the darkness, but only kiss him under bar lights. too drunk, too much, too much.

 

 

iv. “do you ever bring other people around?” 

james laughs, the thought is absurd to him but mike misinterprets, slaps him gently from his place next to him. “look, we’re not all gods who can pull anyone they want. i was just curious.”

 _no no no how could i possibl-_ “yeah, of course.”

“men or women?” 

james turns to look at him but mike is staring up at his ceiling, fiddling absentmindedly with the rings he wears sometimes. (always silver.) james isn’t sure what answer mike wants to hear, what answer would make him sound the best, the least affected, what answer would hurt mike the most.

_nobody, nobody, no one but you._

“men,” he settles on.

mike hums thoughtfully in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say more for a few minutes. he has stopped fidgeting but is still staring so seriously at the unmoving ceiling fan. he closes his eyes before he speaks again, mouth twisting up into what looks like a smile, maybe, but it’s hard to tell at this angle.

“what, i’m not good enough for you?”

this time james doesn’t have to lie. 

 

 

v. it takes a whole week of waiting and thinking and drinking before they all meet up at the studio again post-holidays. james is not exactly in good spirits, but he saw his family and the evening had taken the sting away for a while.

there’s such a feeling of joy throughout the office that james almost feels bad coming in like a dark cloud, but they’ve come to expect that from him and the eye rolls in his direction don’t hurt nearly as much as they used to. this is what he does. he closes off, he backs away. he lets them be _four best friends from school_ and they let him be unimportant, unnoticed, unnecessary. 

a round of cheering and applause greets mike as he enters and he smiles sheepishly, going red in a way james has only seen reflected from empty glasses and spilled across his pillowcase, asleep. it takes his breath away, but mike had always done that to him.

james gives his required “congratulations” before retreating to the loft, headphones firmly over his ears and blasting whatever he could click on the fastest. it doesn’t matter, not really. not when music only reminds him of the playlists he’d play to drown them out, to hide his own quivering voice, to have something else to focus on but his own beating heart. it’s so completely stupid the way he’s hung up on this, on a hook up that lasted about two years too long, but nothing about his life turned into what he expected and far be it from him to try to change his track record now. 

it only takes an hour before mike finds him, tripping on the last stair like he always does. james ignores him, music still way too loud in his ears, pretends as if he could ever overlook mikes’ presence. mike smiles gently, the way he has all day, and removes james’ headphones, his forehead wrinkling in distaste as the music pours out between them. 

“hey, how was your hols?” 

“good.” a pause, james thinks of a million things to say but nothing is right. “i guess yours went well?”

that smile, again. a million shared smiles over stoves, over drinks, over the way their bodies matched like two pieces from different but identically cut puzzles (perfect, but not correct), and none of those smiles matched this one. everything james had ever felt for mike, good and bad, was reflected in that smile and to have to face it all at once was too much. james finally pauses the music from his laptop, looking for anything to do other than this.

“yeah, about that.”

and here’s the moment where james’ traitorous heart goes into overdrive, grows three sizes from where it’s been hibernating somewhere behind his sense of self preservation and his self-control. this is his movie moment, his shakespearean sonnet in the sand, his too-late love confession that came at just right the time.

“can you make our cake?”

even if every inch of his body is screaming for him to say no, james fights his own flesh and blood and he nods, twice, and mike walks away as james’ muscle and sinew rip apart behind him. james wonders if the blood will stain, if it’s dripping down to the ground below, if he’s ever going to be able to clean up this mess.

 

 

vi. a single, dripping faucet in an empty bathroom. half-empty bottles of lotion in the medicine cabinet. a few bobby pins lying next to the sink. neither smokes but there’s ashes, somehow.

 

 

vii. james was not surprised. james was not shocked, or caught off guard, or an idiot. they were just _fooling around_ so of course there was another. even if he hadn’t seen them together he would know. he saw her hands pressed into the bare skin of mike’s chest. he smelt her perfume between mike's thighs. he could feel her small frame curled between them on more nights than not. 

on nights when he couldn’t sleep but mike could, he would putter about, a stranger in his own bedroom, cleaning up the clothes they left draped across every surface in their fervor. one night, mike’s jeans are just a little too heavy, a little unbalanced in his trembling hands, and before he can brace himself for what he expects, the truth comes tumbling out and landing softly on his carpet. a small black box, a silver band inside. james had always preferred gold. mike knows this. they both know it’s not for him.

james tucks it into mike’s jacket, moving it so that mike will always wonder if he was the one who changed its hiding place or not, and he leaves. without a coat, without even locking the door. there was nothing in that apartment that he would miss if it was stolen, nothing in that space that truly belonged to him.

 

 

viii. james sits down next to ben at their big table, a tablet and stylus in one hand and a coffee in the other. ben is tapping and clicking away on his laptop but smiles at him, quickly, before focusing back on whatever he was doing.

james has one hundred different pictures of wedding cakes saved and none of them are good, none of them are the right balance of care and precision, none of them are something he could possibly do. he opens a drawing app and lazily sketches out a cake design once again, not really thinking as he drags the stylus across the screen without lifting it up. 

he tries to keep it down but it comes crawling out of him anyway, soft, between sips of coffee that was too hot to really taste, “i don’t think i can do this.”

ben looks over at his slumped form and smiles, “finding a flavor to go with peanut butter and lemon won’t be easy.”

james almost wants to laugh, it’s not the _flavors_. but how would ben know that? how could he begin to understand that his best friend was both a siren and the storm?

“yeah.”

ben gives him another look, something unreadable in his eyes but clear enough to tell james he knows. ben is normally their voice of reason, the person with the right thing to say for any situation, but this time he’s silent. maybe that was the only thing left to do, be silent.

james can imagine iron gates and stone walls and _silver silver silver_ but he finds his place where he’s most comfortable, where he was before ben ever called him that night. maybe being silent was the only thing he was ever truly good at. 

 

 

ix. mike had been particularly brazen that night, something burning under his skin that he was begging james to drag out of him. james could never say no, even when the drinks they share in front of his kitchen sink feel more like acid than alcohol. they didn’t even use glasses, just passing a bottle between them and taking swigs. in some ways it was the most intimate thing they had ever done.

before they can finish james gets impatient, drags mike with teeth in his neck and fingers wrapped around his hair, shoves him around the way mike always wants but will never admit to. mike takes it all so perfectly, soft where james is rough, but doesn’t go down without a fight. they don’t even make it to his bed, james bending mike over his dresser and taking him, taking every piece of him apart and holding it together in the palms of his warm hands. mike bruises along his hipbones, his thighs, screams his throat raw. 

when it’s over, mike is ink spilt across his bedroom floor and james collects him, places him on the bed, lets him sleep. it had only been forty minutes since mike had first knocked on his door, claiming insomnia and insatiable hunger.

james, always the other side of the coin, can’t sleep. he picks up knick-knacks from his floor, closes the nearly empty bottle of whisky, finds silver once again. this time he opens it, lets the light of his alarm clock shine off of the diamond. he doesn’t hide it this time, just leaves it on a pile of mike’s clothes. he pretends to be asleep when mike sneaks out a few hours later.

 

 

x. after that night, mike doesn’t come over again. james blames the holidays, their busy schedules. he opens his messages but doesn’t send any, instead opening instagram and finding a simple photo with a simple silver band. 

 

 

(xi. ben corners mike one night, when the office is empty and mike was too distracted with invitations and color schemes to notice that everyone else had left. 

“you can’t make him do this.” ben doesn’t say who, or what, but mike can guess anyway. he isn’t sure how ben knows but he isn’t surprised. ben was always able to pick apart the worst parts of him, no matter how much he wrapped himself in barbed wire to avoid just that.

“he could have said no.”

ben doesn’t have to say it for them to both hear it, ringing out loudly in the empty studio. _no, he couldn’t have._ )

 

 

xii. james makes the cake, even manages to put on a professional face as ed follows him around the venue kitchen with a camera. between takes he’s silent, meticulous, checking notes and arranging flower petals with a pair of tweezers. he expected his hands to shake but they’re the most steady they’ve ever been, and it feels like betrayal the way his skin and muscles can pretend so well when his tongue cannot. he stays silent between takes because there’s a thousand words bubbling up his throat and he can’t keep them down.

ben checks on him, sticks some skewers into cakes to check if they’re done and says everything james doesn’t want to hear with just the look in his eyes. barry pops in once too, complains that he should’ve had james make _his_ cake as well, straightens james’ tie with one hand, his other arm wrapped around a baby that quickly gets gathered up and taken away from the knives and ovens. when barry’s hands are empty he fidgets, starts prodding at trays of piped decorations and delicately folded fondant. james swats his hands but barry takes the opportunity to grab on to his wrists, holding james there despite both of them knowing james could easily overpower him.

“why are you doing this?” barry asks, and james is reminded why he always tells new employees not to underestimate the other man. 

there’s no clarification, no further explanation. barry could mean a thousand things and he probably intended every single one. james shrugs as best as he can with his arms held together.

“what else can i do?”

barry frowns, but starts to leave anyway. before he’s out the door he offers, “don’t set yourself on fire to keep others warm.”

james knows he got that from one of the numerous cheesy decorations that lines his living room walls but he appreciates the sentiment, that barry was trying to be wise and helpful when he sees a friend in need. but james knows fire can be cleansing, too. 

 

 

(xiii. barry reunites back with jamie and their wives, their children. there must be something in barry’s face that jamie can see because he asks, quietly, “how is he?”

barry doesn’t know what to say. who can ever describe james in just a word? he’s calm, stoic, nothing but precision and details, he’s so clearly _not_ okay but he’s trying so hard to be that he could convince any stranger, anyone who doesn’t know him the way they do. neither of them knows the full story, knows when and why things changed, knows what james is thinking as he comes in with shopping bags full of new black knives and kitchen tools to replace their current stainless steel. 

barry settles on “okay” and jamie swallows down any protests he has, tries to believe him.)

 

 

xiv. it’s quarter past three when mike finds him, sprawled across a bench, away from the noise and the dancing and the small fire they had lit. it’s half past three before mike says anything and james tries to pretend he was startled, but they both were aware of the others’ presence. james knew exactly where mike was the whole night, keeping an eye on him but keeping his head down, too, avoiding being seen.

james doesn’t move, doesn’t make room for him, but mike makes his own space, letting james' legs lay across his lap and resting his arms on top of them, pinky just barely brushing the bare skin of james’ ankle. james wants nothing more than to punch him and then kiss away the blood. 

“kinda crazy being a married man, now.” mike offers, playing so hard at nonchalant that it almost works. 

james has nothing to say. any other time, any other universe, this would play out the exact way it has before. mike comes to him, tail between legs, barely able to keep his hands around a stilted confession before it spills between his fingers. mike always has some insecurity, some doubt, and james was the light switch in a dark hallway he was constantly fumbling for. 

but mike rearranged the furniture this time and james can’t do anything but knock his legs into coffee tables and try to re-learn the choreography. 

“thank you for the cake.” james feels like he really didn’t have a choice, but again he stays silent.

mike shifts under his legs, tension filling him to the brim until he snaps like a tightly wound coil. “just _say_ something!”

james, already three steps into grief, is able to keep his voice steady against all odds, “what am i supposed to say?

“that you’re happy for me? that you’re still my best friend? that i look stupid in a white suit?”

“i’m happy for you.” and it hurts so much because he _is_. because mike has never looked at him like he looks at her, because mike has spent his whole life wondering if he’s ever going to be happy and now here it is, irrefutable proof wrapping his finger in silver. always silver, never gold.

james doesn’t want to make this his movie moment but he can’t lay here any longer, can’t feel mike’s body heat and mike’s always unreadable feelings and continue to breath. so he gets up, walks away, doesn’t turn around.

“and the rest?”

“you look absolutely stunning in white.”

 

 

xxvii. her name is julia and she has her mother’s eyes but her father’s sense of endless spirit, his desire to always find something bigger and better, his uncanny ability to charm a room with a smile. mike releases a new song for the first time in years that day.

 

 

xxviii. james never sees her, never answers a single well-meaning text with photo attached. james doesn’t call his parents anymore. james lives in a single bedroom apartment in small-town idaho. james loses his accent slowly, over time, but doesn’t notice. james always has one song on repeat during his morning run and his lover doesn’t ask, lets him be. 

 

 

(xv. james types his resignation in size twelve font, times new roman, and buys himself an entire new pack of printer paper just to print it. he folds it carefully, twice, and slips it into an unmarked envelope. he contemplates signing his name, writing _sorry_ so many times the original message is unable to be read, scribbling song lyrics across the envelope. he leaves it blank. he comes in early, leaves the note on ben’s chair. 

he wants to remove every trace of himself from their office, the fanart and the pictures, but he doesn’t want to be childish. he settles for gathering his tools, a scarf he left tied around his desk chair, a stuffed toy a fan had given him. it’s a simple task but it takes him two hours, his touch lingering on the worn spines of books and across smooth cutting boards, almost wanting to be caught. 

he knows they’ll look for him. they’ll try his apartment first, and when he doesn’t answer they’ll check his favorite coffee shop, his old college apartment building, the park where he had his first taste of heartbreak. he knows this, so instead he gets in his car and drives east. he has no plan, no direction, but he knows he can’t be in london right now. 

they’ll be mad, _god_ he knows they’ll be mad, but ben will understand. that’s why he left the note with ben, because ben has to understand, _he has to._ and when ben understands, he’ll guide the others into acceptance, and they’ll sigh and feel sad but it was always just them four and they’ll be fine without him. and james’ heart will ache, and his bills will go unpaid, and his career will be unsalvageable, and his mother will worry, and any part left of him that was soft or yielding will be worn down into ash but, eventually, he’ll be fine without them too.)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for this fic: Walls by Stars (the title comes from this!), Unrequited Love Poem by Sierra Demulder, Between by Vienna Teng, Messenger Bird’s Song by Bright Eyes, and the main one: Silver by David Cook. I love angst, sue me.


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